Mykel's Blog for August 2019 or Someone Special

Mykel’s Post-MRR Blog

Number ??? August 2019

Someone Special

by Mykel Board

Sometimes it’s hard to explain how great it is being Mykel Board. It’s complicated… like explaining humor to a feminist. I’ll give you an example. Here’s an email I got early last year:

Dear Mr. Board,

I feel funny calling you Mister, maybe UNCLE or PROFESSOR would be better. I feel like I’ve known you for a dozen years. I read your column in MRR since I was 15. (Yeah, When they bit the dust I was happier than a liberal at a book-burning.) I’ve been following your blog since you were fired. I feel like I know you. And I also feel like you’re the only person in the world who would understand —maybe appreciate— my uniqueness.

I’m telling you about this now, because I’ll be in New York City for the first time ever. I’m arriving at the beginning of September and staying a week. I hope we can meet up. I’m as big a beer fan as you are —ALL Buds are for me— (LOL) so we’ll hit the bars. But that’s not what I want to tell you It’s something I’ve never told anyone else. Yeah, my mother knows but she never talks about it. We pretend there’s nothing special to talk about. LOL

Okay, I’ll stop beating off around the hairy bush. LOL. You ready? Well, here it comes:

I HAVE TWO ASSHOLES

No, I’m not talking about relatives. I’m not talking about a surgical drillhole for some artificial hanging shitbag. I’m talking about biological, rectal, anal me! I don’t know how it happened. One doctor said it could have been an undeveloped twin, like those two-headed babies in sideshows. Whatever it is, there are two of them.

Both are puffy, rectal rose-shaped. Both are sensitive to the touch. About 3 inches from each other. One is in the normal asshole position. The other about 3 inches up the crack. In case you’re wondering, I only shit out of one of them. But both of ‘em give me pleasure when I stick stuff in ‘em

I hope I was right in deciding to write to you about this. You’re the only person I “know” who would think this was cool. Everyone else would just go YUCK!

See you soon,

Jorge Matias

Holy… er… shit! Who else would get to meet a guy with two assholes? Despite prostate, penis, hairline, and stature problems… there are really some advantages to being ME.

Our email goes back and forth. We set up a date. He’s going to visit in September. I warn him against coming too close to Yom Kippur.

“What’s Yom Kippur?” he asks. “Is that a kind of fish? And why shouldn’t I come too close to it?”

I’m not sure if he’s joking or not. He does live out in the boonies. Besides, who knows what sense of humor a guy with two assholes might have?

He arrives just after Sukkot… knocks, doesn’t ring the bell like a native would. Um yeah, there he is. I hoped he’d be better looking… a modern version of a young David Cassidy… or with a name like Jorge… some skinny dark boy from the DR. Nope. It’s not that he is ugly. He’s just… I donno… plain. Light brown hair, just starting to recede. a chubby face that’ll probably droop into jowls by the time he’s my age. Taller than me… but who isn’t? Not fat, but soft… like a teen muscleman gone to seed at 30. His skin is the kind of white that nobody in New York is.

He’s smiling, but doesn’t say a word... just walks in the door holding an ART record.

  “First thing,” he says, “before we talk you gotta sign this. My friends’ll be jealous when they see it.”

“Are your friends better looking than you are?” I don’t ask.

I sign the record and we sit on the couch.

He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Sure is hot in New York,” he says.

“It’s September,” I tell him. “It’s 65 degrees outside.”

“Yeah,” he says, “hot isn’t it.”

“You want a beer?” I ask, getting up and walking to the refrigerator.

“Sure,” he says.

“Allagash or Founders?” I ask.

“Naw,” he says, “I’ll just have a beer.”

I laugh and bring an Allagash for him and a Founders for me.

We click bottles. “Baka yaroo!” I say.

His eyebrows move closer together.

“It means CHEERS in Japanese,” I tell him. (Actually it means you fuckin’ idiot in Japanese, but I like to tell people it means cheers.)

“Besa mi culo,” he says back. “It means cheers in Spanish.”

“Where are you from?” I ask. “You speak Spanish, have a Spanish name, but are whiter than a Klanman’s sheet.”

He laughs.

“I’m from Idaho,” he says. “You can’t get more backwoods than me. My mother picked the name. I guess she had a lot of choices…. I think it comes from some TV show or something… never knew my dad…. but enough of that. I want to show you my assholes.”

As he speaks, he unbuckles his belt buckle, unsnaps his pants and lowers them to his shins. Then he lowers his boxers, turns away from me and bends over… hands resting on his knees. Normally this is a guest position I’d relish, but there is something oddly… I donno… non-sexual about this.

“Come on,” he says, “look close. You can touch ‘em if you want.”

I bend to inspect that dark crack. Right in the middle —where you’d expect it— is an asshole. I rub my finger against it, and it puckers as rubbed assholes are wont to do. And sure enough, there’s another one a few inches toward the backbone.

I put my middle finger in my mouth getting it nice and wet. Choosing the uppermost of the two holes I press it against the puckered muscle.. The sphincter sucks it inside. It feels softer and wetter than when I do it to myself.

Jorge groans.

I remove the finger so I can bring my hand to my lips again. I suck on the previously inserted finger. There’s a faintly familiar taste… something like... marmalade? This time, I also wet my index finger and bring both to the same opening. I press them in together.

“Yaaaa!” he moans sounding more in pain than in pleasure.

Then I pull out and move up to the other hole.

This one is looser… the slide in is easy. Both fingers… deep and immediate. This must be the poop chute. It’s more relaxed… more flexible.

I unbuckle my belt and drop my pants. I’m hard and ready… I spit into my right palm… twice… then rub the spittle onto my throbbing three inches of love muscle.

Then I plunge in.

Grabbing him around the waist I push my hips forward, burying myself in his lower hole. I can feel him tighten around me. It feels like a fist… a very friendly fist.

Oh yeah, baby! Ride ‘em cowboy! Buck that bronco! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!

I pull out and hand him a kleenex, taking one for myself.

“Thank you for that, Mykel,” he says. “Until just a few minutes ago I was a virgin.”

“You’re shitting me,” I say… instantly regretting the phrase.

He wipes himself... pulls up his pants... and turns to me shaking his head.

“Mykel,” he says, “I’m a freak. A side-show attraction that didn’t happen… How many people do you think want to screw a mutant?”

“There must be a ton of ‘em,” I say. “Back in the days where people actually looked at things on paper… turned pages… there were whole magazines devoted to sex with freaks. You have no idea how many pages got stuck together from semen spilled over freaks.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he asks, still shaking his head. “I’ve read you for years. I know you grew up in a normal family, in the suburbs, near the city. I know you acted weird because you were afraid of being normal.”

“My father only had one arm,” I tell him.

“I know that,” he says. “But that wasn’t you. That was a war vet… almost normal for the time. You tried to be different to avoid normal. But you don’t get what it’s like BEING different, and trying to pass for normal.”

I must look puzzled, because he sits on the couch and sighs deeply… taking a slug of Allagash. He talks to me like a special ed teacher trying to explain algebra to a retard.

“Look Mykel,” he says, “the reason I never had sex before is because I’ve been hiding my difference. Screwing… guys or girls… anybody… would give away my secret. How long do you think I could last in Podunk Idaho as the guy with two assholes?”

I shrug, trying to figure out what percentage of girls are willing to fiddle with your asshole. A small number according to my own peter meter… but I let him talk.

“Okay,” he says. “Let me put it this way. You write about how people should celebrate their differences... how homos… as you call them... should demand the right to flame, rather than the right to get married and be like everybody else… how Negroes… as you call them… should demand the right to be different… celebratory… unique in culture… rather than the right to work as a clerk in a law office. That’s because you’ve been normal your whole life.”

“Hey,” I say, “that’s not fair.”

“But it’s the reality, Mykel,” he answers. “You can deny it, just like some straight guys did the homo thing because of David Bowie… But the reality is… you’re one of THEM. A little shorter than average… a little smarter… a little more sawed-off, maybe… but when push comes to shove, you’re one of THEM.”

I can feel tears welling up. Normal… every day… average… these words are curses to me. Maybe the only taboos I have. And now... someone I’ve just fucked in the ass is… if not saying those words... at least implying them. No fuckin’ LOL here! I blink and hope he doesn’t notice the eye liquid.

He continues, “Before now, I never even tried to have sex. I’ve been afraid that once someone finds out I’m… you know… different... our relationship will change. Either they’d back off because I’m a freak… or they’d want me more… because I’M A FREAK!”

He’s shouting now.

“I picked you,” he continues, “because you have no fetishes, or maybe all fetishes, I donno. And you have no fear.”

“I’m afraid of getting Alzheimer’s,” I tell him.

“Come on,” he says. “You visited that girl in the hospital who just had a kidney transplant… You wanted to look at the stitches. You never met her and —for you— what people don’t talk about… their taboos… that’s what fascinates you. That’s what you go for first.”

“Did I write about that?” I ask. “I forget.”

He nods… and continues almost whispering, “I knew I’d be an adventure for you. I’ve done it. It felt good, but what now? Why can’t I just be normal?”

Me? I’ve spent my literary life celebrating not being normal. I’ve scolded homos for wanting to get married, have children, live like every suburban clone. I’ve complained about women who take offense at being complimented by strangers on the street… instead of just ignored like everyone else. I’ve railed against punkrockers who take jobs on Wall Street. The idea of being normal has disgusted me for almost three-quarters of a century.

And now what do I do?

ENDNOTES: [You can contact me on facebook or by email to god@mykelboard.com. Through the post office: send those... er... private DVDs..or music or zines... or anything else (legal only!) to:
Mykel Board, POB 137, New York, NY 10012-0003.
If you like my writing, you can be notified when anything new is available. Subscribe to the MYKEL'S READERS Yahoo group:
readmboard-subscribe@yahoogroups.com]

-→Full of shit dept: Japan Travel reports that a new museum has opened in Yokohama. It is a TURD (unko, in Japanese) museum. Its focus is on attractions rather than academics. The travel site says it’s designed for the Instagram generation, Unko Museum is less education and more interaction. Step on turd-shaped projections in an interactive game, try your hand at unko mini games, explore unko art and poop-inspired goods from around the globe, and come face to face with feces at the photo section.

-→Kill the Messenger dept: Facebook has come under fire for its super-duper face recognition software that will soon not only identify everyone on the platform, but all their friends… whether they’re on facebook or not. And even if facebook doesn’t sell that information… or the technology (yeah, right)… It can be hacked. Just this month hundreds of facebook users were infected with the MESSENGER virus. It was transmitted by a link to a fake YouTube site. IS THAT REALLY YOU? Asks the fake message over the link. Click on it and you’re infected. From there, the virus sends similar messages to all your friends. That means your face too is now in the hands of… I.C.E.? ISIS? Who knows?

-→Have your cake and eat it too dept: The Times Record News reports that a woman in Texas was banned from Walmart after she ate half a cake in the bakery section. Then she brought the other half to a cashier and demanded to be charged half price. In what appears to be a new non-police policy, the store didn’t call the cops. Instead, they banned her from Walmart for the rest of her life. I’d like to know how they KNOW which banned people are trying to enter the store. Are they getting their facial recognition software from facebook? Can you say shoplifter database?

→ Pimp yourself dept: I’m rebuilding my LINK CONNECTION database. If you have a cool blog, or newsletter, or something else with a URL, let me know (even if you’ve already done so). You show me yours… you’ve already seen mine. If I like it, I’ll link to it and let you know. Then you link to me. It’ll give us both two extra points in the Google search engine. If I’ve linked to you in the past, send me the link again and I’ll relist it. Send the link via email to god@mykelboard.com Subject: LINK EXCHANGE. No YouTube links allowed.

In the meantime, I’m pimping a couple links here. Ones that I’m sure of.

My spiritual foil, who calls me on my shit Richard Goldberg has a great photo-centric blog at: https://goldberg.wordpress.com

Jailbird noise musician and intense critic, Kyle Nonneman has a blog at: https://apothelema.blogspot.com

→Belated Thanks Dept.: I want to thank my editors Marlene W and Ray D. Between them they have straightened out my writing, though that may not be the best verb to use considering the topics.

See you in hell,
Mykel Board